


Five Days that Could Have Started Out Better, and One that Ended Well

by beachkid (binz), binz



Category: Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: Genderfuck, M/M, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-21
Updated: 2007-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/beachkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all in the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Days that Could Have Started Out Better, and One that Ended Well

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly tv!canon, with a smattering of elements from the books.

Harry wakes with a gasp and a start.

There's a moment of pause, a second suspended between the breath he draws in and the air itself, before a surge rushes through his body, sparking from the tips of his toes and up to his head, leaving it pounding and spinning even as he becomes aware. There is the echo of his breathing – one long, rasping breath that must have gotten caught and circles about his head – a distressingly stale, sterile smell, and the pounding of his heartbeat.

Harry stares up at the dark and shivers. He is cold and stiff, and the blood in his body is _wrong_, somehow: as cold as he is, as the air that he's breathing and is surrounding him, and -- he seizes, whole body aching and grinding and somehow misaligned, and he realises that he doesn't know where he is.

He raises his hands slowly. The thought that he's naked flits by, brushing along the goosebumps rising on his limbs. One hand finds the cold, metal ceiling above him, palm pressing flat, and he pushes up carefully, the movement banging his elbows against the close walls. The ring of force meeting metal vibrates around him and through his teeth and bones, settling beneath his skin, and he drops his hand, fingers clenching. His body is an ache, but his flesh is buzzing, crawling, trying to urge him on, and filled to the brim with space.

A press of lips and a focus of will through a still-growing headache forms into a small ball of light hovering above his head. "Oh, shit," he says, and almost wishes he could have stayed asleep, or at least in the dark. The bit of light is reflected tenfold in the metal walls surrounding him, and glints off the plastic morgue toe-tag attached to one of his feet.

 

**2 **

Greg groans softly as he begins to wake, turning over to bury his face in the pillow and block out the morning. The pillow is wrong, and he frowns sleepily. It's some sort of foam, not one of the old down-filled ones he'd gotten from his grandmother back when he first moved away for school, and had never stopped using. It takes a second, but the night comes back in a rush, and he grins, waking up slowly.

God, she'd been hot. And she'd been all over him, pressing up against him at the bar and in the corner of the club, roaming hands with long, talented fingers and legs up to her ears. She'd moved constantly, all tight jeans stretched over narrow hips and a full ass, half covered by a loose shirt, thin and soft, and she hadn't worn a bra. And those _tits_. Greg grunts softly, despite himself, and his hips dig into the mattress. She was almost as tall as he was, and had used that height to her advantage, grinding up into him.

He starts to sweat a little, thinking about it, and the cab ride back to her place, her hands under his shirt and her mouth on his ear, whispering and making him almost as hot as she was. Because God, those lips, full and soft and pouting – Greg jerks, twitching with the sudden flash of her on her knees, short hair over a high, smooth forehead, ruffled and every which way while her lips, her flushed, lush, perfect lips –

_ – Shit, Carther,_ he thinks, chest heaving as he remembers her heat, the arc of her legs over his shoulders and the bow of her belly as she'd flipped him to his back, pinning him down against the mattress; the desperation that had found a place inside him, pressing up under his lungs, and the knowledge that, somehow, he would die if they stopped. She'd felt it too, he knew, from her gasps and demands and the unbreakable grip she'd had on his wrists, pinning him down. _Did you even get her name?_ He rolls back over, cool air washing across his skin, and the wrongness of the pillow makes him smile.

_Harry?_ the thought comes to him slowly, breaking through the haze of sleep and dehydration. He remembers the double doors, and the yellow letters on the window. 'Harry Dresden, Wizard'.

_"Who's that," he asked, head tipped back as she bit and nipped her way across his throat, somehow opening the door behind them. _

"Me," she said, dragging her tongue up to his ear, sucking.

"Harry?" Greg slipped a hand under her shirt, palming the bottom of a breast and flicking his thumb against a hard nipple. She jerked against him, and laughed breathlessly into his neck. "That short for 'Harriett'?"

"If you want it to be," she said, teeth closing down on his bottom lip, and he groaned, losing the thought save for a twist in his belly, and followed her up the stairs.

Greg blinks open his eyes, squinting against the early sunlight, and jerks back, gasping at the man scowling down at him.

"And you're awake," the man says, voice snide and cold and British. The sunlight catches his white hair and pale skin, and he glows almost painfully bright, looming over Greg and leaning closer, mouth pinched and anger etched into his face. "I suppose you enjoyed yourself? Had a good time? Of course, you're going to regret it. Who are you, and what did you do?" The final question is clipped, short and sharp and matched only by the unflinching stare leveled down at him.

"What?" Greg says, blinking furiously. Is this her boyfriend? He wants an answer, and Greg doesn't even understand the question. There's a moan, soft and sleepy, from the other side of the bed, and Greg holds back a sigh of relief as the man turns away, dismissing him to focus on the stirring shape curled up under the comforter next to him. Still, somehow, Greg knows he shouldn't try to leave.

"Harry?" the man says, softly and gently and Greg can't believe it's the same man who'd snapped such hard questions at him a moment before. "Harry, are you all right?"

A messy, wild head of dark hair appears, and wide, clear brown eyes follow, blinking against the light. With a groan, the comforter is shoved away, and the strange man bites his lip, eyebrows drawing down. "Bob?" Harry asks, and yawns. "Whaddaya mean? I'm fine." He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, squinting them shut, and his forehead drops into his hands. "Stars, my head is splitting, though. Did something happen?" Harry's eyes open as his hands fall away, staring down, and it takes a moment before he registers the breasts where they never were before. Confusion sharpens to shock, and he yelps, arms flailing. "Bob!" he shouts, and Greg winces, wondering if there's any chance he's going to get out of this knowing what's going on.

 

**3**

"Detective Kirmani?"

Sid scrunches his face, takes two steps off the elevator and into the station, and wonders if he can step back on without giving it away that he'd heard. He ducks his head and raises his arm, hand clutched around his second cup of morning coffee, steam still rising up through the holes in the plastic cover, and pulls back his coat sleeve, frowning at his watch. He turns to the elevator, doing his best to avoid eye contact, but a hand comes down on his shoulder, and Sid winces, swearing to himself.

Holding in a sigh, he turns back around, coffee cup rising to his mouth. "Yes?"

"Um," the patrol officer says, mouth opening and shutting, and a hand rising to scratch at the back of his head.

_Fuck_. Kirmani gulps down his first drink, throat and mouth burning. His gaze shoots over to his desk, and the one next to it. Murphy isn't in yet, and he knows the awkward shoulders and apologetic pause coming from the officer, shuffling from foot to foot before him, entirely too well. _Six .a.m. is too early for this shit. It's always too early for this shit_.

The officer straightens himself. "About an hour ago, we – my partner and I – picked up a woman on our route. She was walking down West Armitage Avenue, almost naked, and bloody, and there was a huge dog behind her. When questioned, she was obviously disoriented, so we brought her in. And she's still, well. She's not making much sense, sir. We've managed to get that her name is Lea Shee. Lea-Anne, maybe? Lea-Anne Shee."

"And the dog?"

"She says it was a hound."

"… And the hound?"

"Um." The officer shuffles again, and Kirmani squints his eyes shut.

_Here we go_.

"It remained docile until we had the woman into the car. Then it. It, um. It burst into flame, sir. The car's okay, though. Just a little scorched."

Kirmani opens his eyes, and sighs. "Do I need to call Dresden?"

"That's the thing, sir. She, um." The officer glances to the side and Kirmani follows his gaze to a tall, stunningly beautiful red-headed woman sitting regally beside a desk and wrapped in a Chicago PD blanket. "She wants the number to call him, herself. She says she's his godmother."

Kirmani blinks once, then drains the rest of his coffee.

 

**4**

There's a crash from the kitchen, metal and ringing, and Harry startles awake, hands moving before the rest of him, and he's half crawled from the bed before his eyes open, squinting against the pale light leaking in through the bedroom windows. He freezes, eyes widening and mouth stuttering, before he slams it shut, frowning.

Drawing his will, he sends it out carefully, brushing as gently as he can against his wards. _Oh,_ he thinks as the feedback surrounds him, taking shape and impressions and wrapping them around his skin. _Well. That's not good._ He falls back on his heels, and then farther, tipping back to curl his knees up, and bang his forehead against them a few times. "Bob," he whispers, tilting his head at the skull grinning back at him from beside the bed. "You in there? Bob?"

There's no answer, and he sighs, unfolding long legs and setting his feet gingerly down on the floor. It's cold, and Harry mutters, grabbing the comforter off the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders as he stumbles over to his closet, kicking at the clothes on the floor beside it. They all probably know he's awake – probably knew before he did, and they can wait. There's a bang and the smell of smoke from downstairs, and Harry winces. If his place is still standing when he gets down there, that is.

He's pulling on yesterday's jeans, buttoning up the fly, when Bob appears beside him, a shining trail of light and darkness unwinding into his familiar shape. "Harry," he says, and shoots a look at the stairs. "I thought you might want to know that the entire Senior Council, as well as Morgan and the Warden Captain Luccio, are in the kitchen."

"Yup," says Harry, and pulls a long-sleeved t-shirt from the closet. "I figured. Did they say what they want?"

Bob looks torn between stunned shock at the question, and hopeless despair that he could have failed Harry's education so. "You think I _talked_ to them?" He gives Harry a moment to hand-wave an apology, before adding, "Oh, and Blackstaff McCoy has blown up your new coffee maker. Listens-to-Wind's familiar has broken some plates, and is currently investigating your garbage can." They both turn at another bang and clatter. "It appears that he has finished."

"Dresden!" Mai's voice shouts up the stairs, and Harry can't suppress an automatic jerk, arms flapping as his shoulders tense. "Stop gossiping with Bainbridge and hurry up!"

"Don't suppose they're going to pay me, do you?" Harry asks Bob, pulling his shirt over his head and turning for the bed. He grabs Bob's skull from the table, and gestures a hand to the stairs.

"I'd be more concerned about whether or not there's going to be any of you left _to_ pay." Bob raises an eyebrow, and they roll their eyes in sync, Harry plodding down the stairs, biting his tongue to stop from assuring everyone that it wasn't his fault, and Bob manifesting and un-manifesting behind him.

"You'll save me room in your skull? Y'know?"

"Of course."

 

**5**

Murphy figures she shouldn't be surprised that she's pulling to a stop in front of Dresden's at eight in the morning. It's been over three weeks, after all, since he last dragged one of her cases through the spooky wringer. Her captain might have begun to hope that she was going to start regularly submitting reports without the words 'anonymous tip' or 'unexplained' anywhere to be found. And besides, it's Friday, and she has the weekend off. If that wasn't asking for it, she and Anna are going to the zoo tomorrow. She really should have known better.

Scowling to herself, Connie closes the car door a little harder than necessary, striding down the side alley to Harry's back door. No way is he going to be open yet. "Harry!" she calls, knocking on the door. "Harry, open up! C'mon, I know your rent's due in a week. I have a job for you! It's ... spooky."

She waits a moment, lips curling as she remembers the photos from the crime scene: the torn open throats of the men and women, Butters' confusion about the intermingled human and animal teeth marks on the bodies, and her own about the obvious, bloody, handprints mixed with slash marks and gouged into the walls. Murphy frowns and peers through the dusty windows. "Dresden, open the door!"

The lights are on in the kitchen, and in the hallway connecting the front office to the back living space, but there's no movement from inside. Looking closer, Connie sees that what she had assumed to be Harry's usual clutter is more than that: there's very little standing upright, books are strewn across the floor, and there is broken glass on the counter.

"Harry!" she calls, trying the door handle and pulling back her coat over her side holster. The door opens easily, unlocked and without the strange, under-skin-buzz that she's grown used to feeling whenever she crosses into Dresden's home, and she puts her hand on her weapon. "Hello? Chicago PD." The hair on the back of her neck rises, and her eyes widen as she notices the deep claw marks cutting into the floor, and a splatter of blood across the kitchen wall.

She draws her weapon.

The damage is eerily familiar to that in the photos, if understated, and Connie swears. Trust Harry to already be caught up in … whatever it is. He'd better be all right. There's a noise from the hall, thumping and muffled, and she turns sharply, weapon coming up. "Chicago PD!" she warns, and blinks as Harry stumbles into view.

He's squinting, dressed only in a pair of sweatpants, recently pulled on to go by the fistful of fabric he's still tugging up over a hip, and rubs at one eye with the palm of a hand. "Murph?" he says, voice thick with sleep. "What's going on?"

Murphy swallows, and tears her gaze from his stomach and chest and arms, streaked and stained. "Harry," she says, voice as steady as her raised weapon. "How did you get blood in your mouth?"

 

**6**

 

The phone rings downstairs, and Harry grunts, shaking his head against the ribbon-ends of sleep, winding whisper-soft behind his eyes.

"Shh," Bob says, kissing his forehead. "Easy. Ignore it."

Harry blinks, eyelashes brushing against Bob's chest where his head is pillowed, and smiles slowly. _Oh,_ he remembers. _Right._ Bob's hand, tracing idle patters across his back, presses harder, fingertips rubbing into the muscle, and his other brushes softly through Harry's hair. Harry presses his face into Bob's skin, and breathes in deep, muscles up and down his body flexing and stretching. There are a few twinges in unusual places, and he's still smiling when he pulls his head up, finding Bob's eyes peering down at him, soft and dark, and Harry feels his cheeks flush. "I feel asleep?" he guesses.

"Just a bit," Bob assures him, trailing his fingers in Harry's hair down to his chin and drawing him forward and into a kiss. "Only for a little while. It's still night."

Harry moans, bruises along his lips jolting awake and demanding more, and he pushes forward eagerly, sliding up Bob's body and out of his relaxed sprawl. Bob's already waiting for him, and Harry slips his tongue along Bob's, tracing lines and patterns that are quickly becoming as familiar as his own.

Bob's hands find Harry's hips and he lifts, Harry only tightening his hold and deepening the kiss while Bob shifts him forward. A surge of excitement runs through Harry, tangling with lust, and he wiggles gratefully, thrusting down with his hips and arching up, sliding chest to chest. This is _Bob_, beneath him, touching him, murmuring against his lips and digging fresh bruises along his hipbones. Harry's hands can't seem to hold still, and he's mapping Bob like he's reading the world in the dark, memorising each plane and ridge for morning, and he makes a sound he's not expecting, close to a whimper. Bob catches his hands, locks their fingers together, and draws their hands up between them.

Harry finally breaks the kiss, gasping and flushed and wild-eyed, and Bob pushes him back, rising up and pressing down with both their hands until Harry's back is against the bed, hips flexing and shifting on top of Bob's thighs. "Look at me, Harry," Bob says, soft and liquid in the dark. "Look at me," he repeats, and Harry moans. Like he could ever look away. Bob's eyes are deep and bright and Harry can feel his insides stretch to breaking, magic coursing in his veins and rising up under his skin, crackling against Bob's and soaking in. "That's right, Harry," Bob says, and leans over, releasing Harry's hands and drawing a line from Harry's sternum to his Adam's apple with his tongue. "Darling Harry," he says against Harry's throat.

Harry drags his hands down Bob's back, one settling between his shoulder blades and the other tangling in the short hair at the base of his neck. He thrusts forward, the line of his ass pressing against Bob's cock, hard and hot between them. Bob jerks toward him, breath escaping in a sudden pant, and Harry finds himself grinning. Bob is beautiful, chest heaving and skin glowing with sweat and strength, and Harry can't remember a night that ever fond him inside like this and promised to remain, etched cell-deep and as clear as water.


End file.
